Fox Fire

Marcus and I haven't been real friends since middle school, but here we are, midnight on a Friday, side by side on his couch, thumbs mashing buttons in zombie mode. We're both terrible at this game, but neither of us wants to admit it. The undead swarm on screen, pixelated and relentless, and I can feel him glancing over between headshots.

"You're not even trying," he laughs, nudging my shoulder. Same Marcus from seventh grade, always better than everyone at everything.

I shrug. "Why try when I can watch you carry us?"

Outside his window, something moves across the patio. A fox—sleek and rust-colored, eyes catching the glow from the TV. It freezes, watching us through the glass like it understands something about teenage boys wasting their lives on virtual zombie apocalypses.

"Check it out," I say, pointing. Marcus glances, barely interested. The fox dips its head, vanishing into the darkness.

"Just a fox," he says, returning to the game. "We're on wave seven. Focus."

But I'm still thinking about it—how something that wild and alive exists right outside his suburban bedroom, while we're in here playing dead. Something twists in my chest. This is why we grew apart. Marcus sees everything as just background noise to whatever he's trying to win. I see the fox and wonder where it goes at night, what it's hunting, if it's lonely.

The zombie horde breaks through our defenses. Game over. Marcus sighs, aggravated, and I realize I don't care if we ever beat level seven. I care about the fox out there, alive and moving, not stuck in someone's basement pretending to kill things that are already dead.

"I'm heading out," I say, grabbing my jacket. Marcus looks confused. I leave him there with his paused game and walk home under streetlights, listening for movement in the shadows, feeling more alive than I have all year.